Coming Clean
by Meridian1
Summary: The Miracle Cure for vampirism's not-so-miraculous course. What it means to be 'cured' for Hannibal King. (pre-"Blade: Trinity")
1. Purge

Title: Coming Clean

Author: Meridian

Rating: PG-13 (some language, severe sickness, sexual imagery)

Author's Notes:_ I have already written a pre-"Blade: Trinity" piece on the rescue and integration with the Nightstalkers of Hannibal King. This isn't necessarily a background piece. It's more focused on his rescue, and a question raised by the films as to what the 'cure' for vampire bites might be like. Of course, it's melodramatic and King-centric, with a little bit of Abby/King shipping thrown in for good measure, so it's not all serious. Enjoy, and maybe forgive me for harping so much on one subject, hm?_

* * *

**Stage 1: Purge**

"God, I hate this part," King panted, dropping his head, hangdog style, between his tensed arms. He braced himself against the far wall, fingers going white against the tile there as they gripped for purchase. Of all the Nightstalkers currently at the base, only Abby had volunteered to see him through the first round of EDTA treatment. Sommerfield needed eyes to report the symptoms and responses she couldn't see.

"You've done this before?"

"Couple-couple of times," King gagged, sagging to his knees beside the bathtub. Abby tried to lower him slowly, taking on most of his weight, but he still dropped hard enough to make her wince.

"They've given you EDTA," Sommerfield commented, sounding far away. Likely, she was cross-referencing her knowledge of the treatment with expected physiological responses. None of them had ever rescued anyone this badly off before. Not until a few months ago when Abby's father got back in touch with her. Apparently, if the person being treated were kept from dying, EDTA could work against vampire blood up until the point that it had all but completely replaced human blood. King had it relatively easy-relative to Whistler-but they didn't know how hard 'easy' was going to be.

"What should we expect?" Abby directed the question equally to King and to Sommerfield. Sommerfield didn't answer right away; King squeezed his eyes shut and made choking noises. Awkwardly, Abby patted his back, trying to soothe him in what amateurish ways she knew how.

"Probably vomiting," Sommerfield said at last. "You can only ingest so much blood before you get violently ill. If the vampire blood is purged, that is. Vampire blood has a stabilizing effect on the alimentary tract. Because vampires don't need to eat, the stomach and intestines are pretty much shut down."

"How do they process the blood, then?" Abby asked, keeping one eye on King.

"I had thought it was akin to a syringe," Sommerfield mused, "actual suction through the teeth. But the samples you brought me indicated otherwise."

"They drink it," King contributed, making little retching noises.

"Exactly. Vampires can ingest blood they need to survive orally, not just through a bite. I believe they process it directly into their blood stream through the stomach somehow."

"Good...to...know..." King gasped, and, finally, it came. Abby fell backwards as he lurched forward over the tub. His hands slipped from the opposite wall as he heaved and spewed forth what looked like ten stomachs' worth of blood. The white porcelain tub, previously so pristine, looked as if it had been the sight of a most gruesome murder, a la _Psycho_, only without the convenient spray of water from the shower to wash it away. Trembling, King shuddered with aftershock gags, spitting up blood-tinged mucous, which dripped from his nose as well.

"Abby, Abby! Tell me, what does it look like?" Sommerfield's excitement seemed wildly out of place given the scene of carnage in their tub and the way King had still not stopped shaking.

"Jesus," she swore. "There's a lot of blood, Sommer." She ducked outside long enough to grab a heavy blanket, one of the spares they used to keep the injured covered, and draped it over King's shoulders. "Is there more?" She asked him, wiping his forehead, which was profuse with sweat.

"Maybe," King coughed, hacking and spitting venomously. Abby grabbed a washcloth, wetted it, and handed it to him. Some things he had to do for himself, especially since she had no desire to wipe the crap off his face. King took it, ran it clumsily over his nose and mouth.

"Abby, Abby, what's happening?" Sommerfield appeared to be straining to pull in as much information from her other senses as she could.

"I think we got the worst of it, Sommer." As detachedly as she could, Abby described the fresh contents of the tub to her. What came out was mostly liquid, though here and there the blood had congealed into lumps floating in yellow fluid. Nothing fleshy, but definitely some partially digested blood, probably from where his stomach had tried and given up processing it.

"That sounds promising," Sommer said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "If it's all cleared out...and congealed blood, too, that means your system's processed out the vampire blood."

"Whoopee," King mumbled, resting his head on his arms.

"Are you okay?" Abby rubbed his neck, targeting the stressed muscles that twitched there.

"No."

"Will you be?"  
"I don't know."  
"What do you mean?" Sommerfield leaned closer.

"Never went longer than a few months between shots." He lifted his head, looking directly at Abby. "What happens after that?"

"Survivors we've talked to say it gets better."

"Oh? Better than rock bottom, good to know," and he put his head down again. Abby shot Sommerfield a pleading look she couldn't see, but the doctor had an uncanny sixth sense that let her understand the message just the same.

"There's only been one person we know who's been bitten and rescued and who ingested blood in large quantities."

"Yeah? Who's that?"

"My father," Abby said. King rolled his head to the side to look at her. She held her face impassive. It was a trump card, she supposed, and would have been a better one if she actually loved him that much. But King didn't know that.

"Oh," was all he said.

"You're probably going to have a high fever for a few days," Sommerfield explained. "The EDTA will target the vampire blood in your system, making it vulnerable to antigen-exploiting cells of your immune system."

"English, _please_," King groaned.

"The fever is a good sign," Sommerfield simplified. "It means you're fighting the vampire blood left in your body. Once some of the vampire cells are digested by macrophages, the antigens-the foreign particles-from the vampire blood will be presented to B-cells and T-cells which will activate antibodies and killer-Ts to remove the infection and keep it from spreading. EDTA paralyses the infectious aspect of vampire blood long enough for your system to fight it."

"How long?" Abby wanted to know. If they had to watch him to make sure that the infection _was_ cleared, they needed to have details.

"A little less than a week, I think," King offered. "I remember being sick about that long. Or, it felt that long."

"That's about right," Sommerfield agreed. "It depends on the severity of infection. I would almost recommend a transfusion, but introducing more foreign elements into a compromised system won't help. We'll have to wait and see if he's got enough of his own blood to fight it."

"That's not very encouraging," Abby frowned, mulling it over. How the _hell_ had her father gotten through this? At his age? Gone as long as he had been? Will alone, she surmised-he could be a stubborn bastard. She would have to hope King was, too. She placed her wrist against his forehead. He was hot already. "We should get you to a bed. Unless you think you're going to need to be sick again."

"I'm clean," King said, clearing his throat and spitting again. "I feel hollowed out. Like a donut."

"If you're well enough to crack wise," Sommerfield said, her mouth twitching as she fought a smile, "you're well enough to get out of here."

"Thanks, doc." Pulling the blanket around himself tighter and tossing the washcloth at the far end of the tub, King accepted Abby's help getting to his feet. He wasn't joking about empty feeling, either; somehow, in the time between retching and standing, he seemed to have lost about fifty pounds. His frame felt light, even fragile, as she guided him along. Dex met her halfway to the recovery room, taking King's other arm. They only had one medical gurney, which they helped King up onto. It was only when they raised the guardrail and prepped the restraints that his docility began to fade.

"Hang on a second-"

"No argument," Dex growled, hastily, rudely grabbing King's wrist and securing it with the leather straps. "We have to make sure nothing bad happens if something bad happens to _you_." Abby affixed the other strap, ignoring King's plaintive expressions directed at her.

"He's right." She didn't mention that they used this bed occasionally to subdue vamps and beat information out of them. She didn't say that they usually had silver handcuffs to hold down the bed's occupant, and that he should consider himself lucky they only used the straps this time. Midway through the EDTA treatment, chances were good silver would still deal him a nasty sting.

"What if I have to go to the bathroom?"

"Raise your hand," Abby said, flatly.

Sommerfield tapped her way into the room, smiling. "I could install a catheter if you like."

King relented. "I'll be good."

* * *


	2. Fever

Title: Coming Clean

Author: Meridian

Rating: PG-13 (some language, severe sickness, sexual imagery)

* * *

**Stage 2: Fever**

Abby had taken second watch. Dex and Hedges, Hedges in particular, claimed to be too squeamish to do the clean up work in the bathroom, so Abby had taken over, leaving them with the first night's shift watching their new guest. The tub was disgusting enough to merit an entire night off, but her curiosity would not be satisfied if she didn't see the whole treatment through. Sommerfield said the fever would build but would not peak for a few hours.

In the interim, Abby collected a few samples for Sommerfield's burgeoning DNA collection. If any of the vampire blood survived the stomach acids, Sommerfield would use it to continue working on Daystar. They had yet to match King's master, or mistress, as the case was, to their database, which meant she was probably not that old. Older, for Daystar's purposes, would have been better, but they'd be lucky to get a viable sample at all from the mess in the bathtub.

One heavy Clorox treatment of the bath and a long, scalding hot shower later, Abby emerged feeling, for the first time in hours, scrubbed clean and germ free. She caught a few hours sleep, and then relieved Hedges.

"How is he?"

"Sleeping. God," Hedges ran a hand over his face. "He even talks in his _sleep_." Smiling, Abby patted Hedges on the shoulder and took up his seat next to King's bed. She'd brought a few arrow tips with her. After taking them to the practice range, she sharpened them again-waste not, want not.

_No._

Abby's head jerked up at the same time King tossed his. Had she imagined that? Hedges had said he talked in his sleep. That made sense. She watched him, watched his lower lip tremble and his jaw muscles tense and release, tense and release.

"_No_," he whimpered, uncharacteristically-as far she understood his character, that was-timid, scared, vulnerable. She placed her wrist to his forehead; the fever burnt high, and her wrist came away slick with his sweat. All the while, his jaw worked, tight, loose, tight, loose, almost as if he were chewing on something.

Not good. If he gnawed on the inside of his mouth, or, worse, bit off his tongue, things could get rather serious rather fast. Abby reached for a pair of disposable latex gloves from the box beside the bed, plucking up a couple of wooden tongue depressors as well. Forcing his jaw open when it next relaxed, she roughly inserted the wooden sticks between his teeth on either side. The sharp canines in front bit down and through even the thick wood, but the molars at the back were kept apart.

Satisfied, Abby leaned back and waited to see if he would wake. With the ends of the depressors keeping his lips from closing over his mouth, she could see the unnaturally elongated teeth in front worrying at the wood and each other. Sommerfield hadn't mentioned when those would recede. Perhaps they wouldn't; they might need to be worn down, like gerbils' teeth, on a rock, or broken off. He wasn't fully vamped, though, or he wouldn't have survived the EDTA. So, maybe they would just go back to normal, the same way the rest of his body would.

"Mrn," King grumbled, whatever he might have said garbled around the tongue depressors. The words sounded like what one might have expected from a person who'd gotten their wisdom teeth removed-like his mouth was full of cotton. He twitched, too, various muscles spasming, in his arm and his shoulder, from his chest to his abdomen. She placed one cool hand over a particularly excited muscle on his shoulder. "Mrn, rauch isfh," he said, eyebrows furrowing.

"Shh," she cooed for no reason she could fathom. After a moment, he opened his eyes, blinking, dazedly, at her in the dark. He seemed confused, unable to focus on her. Gently, she reached out and removed the tongue depressors. "I didn't want you to bite yourself.

"My mouth hurts," he whispered, trying to rub his cheek against his shoulder. Strapped down, he couldn't massage the obviously sore muscles.

"Stay still, and I'll help you." Obediently, he lay still, and Abby placed two fingers just below his temple and began to press in on the muscles there, lightly at first, then harder, moving her fingers in circles. "Better?"

"A pretty girl is touching me. What do you think?" King smiled, a proper use of his overworked jaw, and despite herself Abby smiled back.

"Get through the night, Romeo."

"Tell me about the other guy who went through this," King said, eyes falling shut. "Your dad."

"I wasn't there for it," Abby confessed, switching hands and working at the knots on the other side of King's face. "Someone else rescued him. He told me about it, though."

"What did he say?"

"That it hurt like hell." Actually, what her father had said was, '_It burns, Abby. It burns like the worst cramp you've ever had mixed with the worst cut you ever had. It's sore and it's raw and it hurts to be touched. That's when it's the absolute worst-the fever makes you ache and everything that touches you is too hot and too cold all at once_._ On fire, from the inside.'_ She tried to picture him going through this. He talked honestly about it, but he never let her see how much it had wounded him, never betrayed himself or his feelings in his words.

"Hell," King sighed, "is about right."

"This happened last time, didn't it?" She prompted him, trying to keep him talking. It was cruel, perhaps, but anything they could learn about this condition would help them fight it and treat it in the future.

"I don't remember," King said, truthfully. He possessed no surplus strength to lie, and Abby found herself admiring that; he fought hard, spared nothing for artifice. Whenever it was he recovered completely, she could see that his pride and determination would deny ever being weak like this. When he didn't have to devote all his resources towards saving his life, that was.

"How many times did they hit you with the cure?"

"Two, maybe three. Never went long, though."

"How long this time?"

"Maybe a year?"

Abby bit her lip. She didn't know anyone _could_ go a full year, still active, and not change entirely.

"My father was out of commission for almost four years."

"No shit."

"They kept him in stasis. They were using him as insurance."

"Against you?"

"No," she said without elaborating. She hadn't mentioned her father again to bring up the subject of his line of work-or his coworker, for that matter. She had intended to encourage King. "He wasn't active, like you. I'm impressed you didn't change. After a year?"

"Thanks," King wheezed, eyes fluttering open. "I always knew I could do it."

"Why did your...why did the vampire holding you wait so long?"

"She enjoyed having dinner with me."

"Ugh," Abby wrinkled her nose in disgust. Just like a vamp, too. They were all sadists at heart. Something about immortality bestowed a marked indifference to the suffering of others, or, worse, engendered a _love for_ the sufferings of others. Still, what would that be like? That life? "How was it?"

"The pea soup was terrible."

"You're funny," she rolled her eyes. "Seriously."

"I'm always serious."

"You don't want to tell me? Sommer's gonna ask, you know."

King sighed again, his breath hitching as though breathing were difficult. "It's like being a starving vegetarian in Texas."

Abby's jaw dropped open slightly. "Come again?"

"You're dying for food, and the first thing someone puts in front of you is a steak that's still mooing. You don't care that you don't like it, you _need _it." He ran his tongue over his bruised lips and shuddered.

"Vampires must have not taste buds," Abby grimaced.

"They have them. They just selectively breed for the ones that can pick blood vintages like merlots."

"Wonderful," Abby made another show of distaste, dropping the subject. They sat together in silence, not asking inane questions to pass the uncomfortable minutes in each other's company, with her absently running the whetting stone over her arrowheads and him alternating between pained, shallow breaths and deep, shaky ones. She thought he'd gone back to sleep when he spoke again.

"What happens if I don't beat this?"

"I kill you." Aware of how callous this sounded, she mitigated, saying, apologetically, "That's the way it has to be."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah," he turned his head away from her. "Better than the alternative."

Something in the way he said it made her believe, for the first time, that he was not a threat. She hesitated, unsure, then made up her mind. Setting aside her weapons, Abby worked at the restraints, moving to his feet first, then unbuckling the ones at his wrists. He remained still while she unfastened the leather, until all were loose. Then, suddenly, he curled up on the gurney, bringing both his arms to his chest and his knees up over them.

To her astonishment, he began to sob. It was so out of place for this man as far as she knew him, and so drastic a change from the way he had been not five minutes before, when he had been restrained. She lowered one guardrail and dragged her stool closer so she could sit leaning around him, holding him.

"You have to win, King. Failure is not an option. If you lose, you die."

"I," he ground his teeth and spat the words through them, "Never. Lose."

**

* * *

**


	3. Recovery

_Title: Coming Clean  
Author: Meridian  
Rating: PG-13 (some language, discussion of severe illness, some sexual imagery)  
Author's Notes: Thanks to all who reviewed the first two chapters. Your enthusiasm has been overwhelming. I'm thrilled you've enjoyed the story so far. This will be the final chapter of this story, but I have plans in works to maintain this continuity for possible other King-related stories detailing his reacclimitization to humanity and inclusion into the NightStalkers. For now, enjoy the rest of "Coming Clean."_

* * *

**Stage 3: Recovery**

His fever broke less than a week later, and King drifted into and out of periods of lucidity. Hedges managed to catch him on his delirious fits more often than anyone else and wound up the butt of enough jokes to bring him "within an inch of mercy-killing" their patient. Mercy for Hedges, that was. Sommerfield collected blood samples routinely, using no more than a finger prick because she didn't want him to lose any more blood than was necessary. It was good thing, she said, that his fever calmed in under ten days because she was running out of fingers.

Abby took all the night shifts. Being the primary hunter in their group, she was used to the night owlish schedule. That King was at his most aware at night, she never thought to mention to anyone other than Sommer.

It was nearing dawn and the end of her shift, on the eleventh night-into-morning. As she always did, she gauged his temperature with her wrist, pleased to feel that he hadn't relapsed; it stayed at the mildly elevated state it had been back that first night when he'd wretched up a crime scene in their bathtub.

"How do you feel?"

"Fuzzy."

"Fuzzy like a cloud or fuzzy like a blanket?" It was a game. Fuzzy clouds were bad--that meant loss of senses, disorientation, vertigo; fuzzy blankets were good--that meant warmth without searing, coziness in his own skin, and connection to the world outside his body.

"Fuzzy like a teddy bear." He held out his arms, bent a rigid ninety-degrees at his waist, and opened and closed his mouth like a fish. "I'm Teddy Ruxpin. Let's be friends, Abby."

"Goof," she smirked. "I guess that means you're okay."

"It means I feel like singing." Without warning, he darted out one hand and pinched her side. "Come on, let's sing!"

She grabbed his arm and twisted it. "Keep it up, and you're going to be singing soprano."

He blinked at her. "That's the best you got? Have you really thought that threat through?"

"What do you mean?" She said, unable to keep a straight face as she released his hand.

"You'd have to grab my balls for that to work." Looking supremely pleased with himself, King rested his head on his interlocked hands. "You might get to like it."

"Just keep pushing, King," she warned without any heat to it. A chuckle escaped her, further ruining her badass imitation. "Looks like you're almost ready to be up and about for longer than it takes to make it to the toilet."

"Yeah," King smiled. "Now I can take even_ longer_ dumps." He laughed when she made a face.

"I see your brush with death hasn't killed your sense of humor."

"Nope, but what's your excuse?"

"Okay, funny guy," Abby said, rising from her seat. "If you're feeling so great, you can get up and take a long walk off the short pier," she jerked her thumb towards the windows, "in that direction."

"It's a date," King agreed and hauled himself up into a sitting position. Teasing forgotten, Abby moved closer to help steady him, if only with her presence, when she swooned slightly. "It's okay," he told her, but he accepted her help off the gurney and allowed her to drape his arm over her shoulders. He tugged the blanket off the bed, and she waited, patiently, as he hugged it around himself.

"Come on," she grunted, shifting as he staggered. "I want you to see something." Slowly, and with great difficulty, she navigated him out of doors, keeping pace with his hesitant, uneven footsteps. "That's it," she praised, motivating him. "This way." King, for once in his waking life, was quiet, focused as he was on moving and not passing out. _Stubborn_, Abby thought, _nailed it_.

They circled around towards the rear of the base, where there was a ladder leading up to the roof. She let go of his arm, giving him a moment to catch his breath. Abby would catch hell from Sommerfield, but she could think of no more fitting way to celebrate his fever breaking and receding--proof of his successful struggle to regain his humanity--than this.

"Can you make it up the ladder?"

"Maybe," he said, glaring up at it as if it insulted him. "Maybe not. But I'm going to try."

"I'll be right behind you." She nudged him forward, and, both hands grasping the rails, he took a few steps up. Close behind, ready to catch him if he fell, Abby waited out his breather.

"Quit looking up my blanket, Whistler."

"Then move it, Gramps."

"Nazi."

"Lazy."

"Touché." King pulled himself up the rest of the way, and Abby darted up next to him, taking his arm again and looping her own around his waist while he coughed and panted.

"Don't push yourself too hard. Sommer'll have my ass."

"She doesn't already have dibs on that, does she?" He waggled an eyebrow at her. " 'Cause if she does, I want to watch."

"Idiot," she swatted him and guided him to one of the upper deck's padded seats. With a shiver, he collapsed onto it, leaning his back against the railing. She sat next to him, shifting to allow him to lean against her, too.

"What're we doing here?"

"You'll see."

"I can be impatient, you know."

"Hadn't noticed," she teased, keeping her gaze straight ahead. She checked her watch in the pre-dawn light. Five minutes. "Just stay awake a few more minutes and don't die of hypothermia on me."

"You're supposed to huddle together for body warmth in situations like these. Naked, too, if I remember correctly."

"So, huddle, but keep your clothes on. Don't want to scare Zoe."

"Who?"

"Sommerfield's daughter. You might not have been awake or coherent when she came to see you."

"Why would she do that?"

"Curiosity, mostly. She's never seen an asshole up close."

"Ouch," King placed his hand over his heart. "Well, we can thank God she's been exposed to a _bitch_ early on. Maybe she won't grow up to be one." His tone, despite his words, was affectionate, even grateful. She hadn't said Zoe was curious to see what a _vampire_ looked like up close. He might not have fallen that far, but it was as near to it as she hoped Zoe would ever see. Else, why did they do this? If not to make the world safer for kids like Zoe, then why?

"Here it comes," she whispered.

"What?" But he had already turned his head in the direction she was looking.

From between the tall buildings of the downtown skyline, thin cracks of sunlight poked through. They started close to the ground, and, as she and King watched, the beams spread into wide swaths of red, orange, and golden-rod. They did not speak nor tear their eyes away from the sky until the blinding white-hot sun rose into view itself.

One stray arc raced over the ground, unimpeded by the buildings, and danced over the water towards the base. Abby held her breath as King reached out a hand and tentatively stretched one finger into the light. When nothing happened, he moved his entire hand into it, closing his eyes and inhaling sharply. Abby watched his hand flip over one way, then the other, fingers waggling.

"_God_," King breathed, a guileless smile, one she'd never seen on him, ticking up one corner of his lips. "It's been _ages_."

"I thought you'd like to get out." She ruffled his hair. "You're so pale."

"Not any more," he said, with some determination. "I'm getting me a tan first thing."

Abby shook her head. "No, first thing, you're going to get back in shape, so you don't relapse. Vanity comes second to health."

"One and the same," King grinned. "One and the same." He waved his hand in the sunlight some more, rising up out of his seat to move fully into it. Bathed in golden hues, he lifted his face to the sky and drank in the long-denied, indescribable wonder of daylight. Abby could not find it in her to mind the practical things--the fact he wore only a light pair of scrub pants and an undershirt and that he was still sick--when she saw him like that.

She lost track of time, sitting there, basking in the waves of good feeling King radiated. It took Sommerfield's shrieking nearly forever to penetrate her buzz. Zoe was at the ladder, regarding them both with a child's confusion and suspicion. She must have alerted her mother as to where her patient had gone. Haltingly, Abby pulled herself up off the seat, taking the blanket with her.

"Come on," she whispered to King, arranging the blanket on his shoulders once more. "Time to go inside."

"Five more minutes, Mom."

"Sommerfield's going to kill us."

"I'll die happy. That's more than I could have said a week ago."

Abby looked to Zoe, who still watched them both, curious and expectant. She shrugged at the girl, as if to say '_what can I do?' _and Zoe bounded down the ladder. The spell, however, seemed to have been broken. King opened his eyes, steadied himself by reaching around her shoulder. He caught her off guard, swinging his other arm around her just as she went to support him with one arm around his back. He was _hugging_ her. Stunned, Abby patted him once, then, as comprehension dawned, she gave him a light, gentle squeeze.

She raised herself up on tiptoe and murmured, "You're welcome," into his ear. He pulled back, grinned, and then bent forward quickly, bringing his lips down on hers. Startled for the second time in as many seconds, it seemed, Abby opened her mouth to protest and melded their mouths together as a result. Clinically, she recognized that kissing a sick man wasn't the most sanitary thing she could have done, but, hey, he wasn't a bad kisser. At the same time, rage and indignity built, and just before she could shove him away, he backed off.

"You're welcome," he smirked, releasing her and working his way down the ladder, leaving her in his sunlight, gaping and wondrous.


End file.
